Why do you ask about the color of his hair?
by rusanno
Summary: The very abreviated story of how spy met scout's mother as written into a steam chat and subsequently lost for all eternity.


_My dear friend Bardock,_

_I only ask you what the spy looks like because_

_I'm trying to imagine hi_m _s_i_tt_in_g_ alone in a bar and seeing a beautiful woman by the window. She's got a cigarette in her hand and she's trying to light it but her lighter's about out of fuel and it won't catch. He comes up behind her,smooth as silk, flicks his little silver lighter, and lights her. She turns to thank him and is confronted with a handsome, young soldier. Black hair, blue eyes, tall as anything, and beautiful. She says something to him but he doesn't respond very quickly.

"Sorry. Bad English."

"French?"

"Yes."

"Ah"

they don't talk about why he's here. There's no need. The war is everywhere. And anyway they are so wrapped up in each other by now, the rest doesn't matter. They chat for a while in simple broken English. He finds out about her boys. The oldest is seventeen. He doesn't believe her. She's so young. She says adoption. Something in his face changes and he very seriously asks her why.

"He needed a home- like I did back then. I remember those days and how much I wanted them to end. They never ended." She takes a drag on her cigarette, "well until now anyway."

He is silent for a long time, searching for a word. It is a word he has heard a million times in French and a million times too many.

"Orphan?"

"Yes"

He looks out the window at the busy street.

"Me too."

"Did they tell you how?"

His gazes focused out the window and his grip on his cigarette is tighter than it needs to be.

"No, but I remember."

She is silent, watching him intently but patiently.

"Just mother. Always. Then," he swallows hard because this next part hurts, "he came back- for money. She said no. He got mad. There was a knife and I couldn't-" he doesn't ever finish the story. She has him by the hand. Her eyes have tears in them but they don't fall. It takes alot to make her tears fall. She is a strong woman. He needs that right now. He is a like soul. She needs that right now.

He studies the way her hand rests on his. Then he turns his hand over to hold it. His eyes move up to hers and he knows. He knows she's seen it too.

"How?"

"Beaten to death." Her answer is short, practiced, and placid. But there is anger hidden deep in those words an anger only time can soften but never completely erase. His eyes darken and he stares at her to the point that he seems to be looking through her.

"Did he hurt you?"

She sighs and looks at the grain of the wood table,

"No. I ran away."

These last words she spits out like poison, "I was a fast little girl and I could jump too. But I was a coward for running that night."

"No." He squeezes her hand tightly in his, "No you were not coward for that."

She smiles a gentle smile and squeezes his hand back- a wordless thank you. Their conversation turns- as it would- from the past to the present. She's living in a room above a store a couple blocks from where they're sitting and she works in that store. He won't say where he lives or where he works, but she assumes –correctly- he's involved with the military. Does she have a husband? No. A boyfriend? No. Surely not! Pretty lady like her? Thank him, but no. Would she like one? Which? Either. Was he serious? He was. But they had only known each other for a few hours? He was aware, but it didn't matter. He loved her. Could he wait? His face and body said no but his mouth said yes. Good. Would she see him here again tomorrow? On his life.

And so it would be for many months. They would talk together, walk together, dance together, and eventually live together. He would love her, and she would love him. One beautiful night he would hold her close and kiss her softly until sunrise. He leaves her a rose and a note and goes for a walk. A month or so later she tells him the news and he is shocked. She is terrified but he assures her he will stay. In fact if she will allow it he would like to stay forever. He would buy a ring later, but for now he places his hands on the would-be bump and kisses her for a long time. He had never been happier in his life, but it was not to be. He was called on by his job. They knew about her and the baby, but it was of no consequence. He was needed. His "death" was arranged, and the ring never graced her finger. The dress never left the shop. The tears never stopped falling for months.

Scout was born in November. Just a mom. Always. That's all he ever had. He came back, but this time was different. This time was with tears and roses and no knives. This time no one ran away. This time he stayed –even though his son didn't want him to –even though he never knew him as his dad. Only an enemy. They never told him the truth. They both thought it better that way. Would she marry him still, after all these years? No, not yet. That would have to be earned again. She was worth it.

She thought so too.

* * *

_"You should publish that," she tells me._


End file.
